


Sunday Bloody Sunday

by delusion_al



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Acxa & Keith (Voltron) are Siblings, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen, Gryffindor Keith (Voltron), Minor Allura/Lance (Voltron), One Shot, Quidditch, Ravenclaw Lance (Voltron), Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 09:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delusion_al/pseuds/delusion_al
Summary: Lance wants to watch the Quidditch match but Gryffindor's new Seeker is annoyingly distracting.





	Sunday Bloody Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> This work can be read as a standalone or as part of my Hogwarts Mystery universe. The purpose of the one-shots is to describe the motivations, relationships and backgrounds of the characters without straying too far from the main plot. 
> 
> [Sunday Bloody Sunday by U2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EM4vblG6BVQ)  
>  [Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895131/chapters/34497128)

**1983**

It was Lance’s second November at Hogwarts and he felt the earth grow quiet. It seemed to be making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures, white and silent and hiding all manner of life beneath its blankets. The trees and Whomping Willow were standing sticks and bones, looking lovely without their leaves, spreading their arms like dancers.

It was usually such a disagreeable month as if the year had suddenly found out it was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it. But Lance admired its grace and hospitality. In November, the smell of food was different. It was an orange smell – a squash and pumpkin smell – and it tasted like cinnamon and could fill up a house in the morning, could pull everyone from their beds in a fog. Food was better in November than any other time of year.

People, too, were good to each other. They carried pipes to each other’s homes and talked by crackling wood stoves, sipping mellow cider, and colours looked that much more vivid and brighter.

Today was a day of intense colour. Lance swam through a sea of scarlet and gold, and green and silver, beneath the rolling rainclouds, grinning manically. The atmosphere felt damp around him though it wasn’t warm or clammy but deliciously cold, and he buzzed with excitement.

“Where are we going?” Hunk asked. He was trailing behind, unsurprisingly less than eager and uncomfortable in the crowd.

“The commentator’s stand,” Lance replied instantly. “It’s the best viewing spot.”

“I want to be by the Goal Posts,” Nyma huffed, “so I can see them score.”

“But then you won’t be able to see what’s going on at the centre of the pitch,” Rolo pointed out. “That’s where all the good stuff happens.”

“And you guys are supposed to be taking notes,” Lance quipped, trying not to sound bitter. They had already reached the foot of the tower and were steadily climbing so there was no going back now.

It was the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and the turnout was immense. The entire school had come to see the two rivals go head-to-head and the air was thick with enthusiastic chattering and the heat of hundreds of bodies pressed together. Lance swore he saw steam rising if he squinted hard enough.

He couldn’t help but feel a hint of dejection that he had flunked tryouts and failed to get onto Ravenclaw’s team, but he supposed it didn’t matter anyway because it’s not like they really had a chance of winning the Inter-House Cup this year. He’d done his research and he realised that, even without him, they were the worst team going.

Hufflepuff easily led the rankings. Despite their House’s wholesome reputation, their Captain was a _beast_. Gwenog Jones had the best Beater’s arm Lance had ever seen and he blanched at the thought of being on the receiving end of her shots. Slytherin was composed entirely of older students who knew what was what and their Captain, Lotor Malfoy, was a tactical genius. Meanwhile, whilst Gryffindor had the likes of Takashi Shirogane, Ravenclaw was left with Allura Albright as their only redeeming player.

Speaking of whom…

Lance immediately spied a familiar head of liquid silver hair as he reached the top of the stairs. She was sat at the front of the stands next to a professor he didn’t recognise and _my god_ , she was _so_ pretty. Her hair was braided, pulled back out of her face, and she’d drawn two rose-coloured V-shapes underneath her eyes, and she was laughing, it sounded like bells chiming –

Someone shoved him.

“ _Move_ , Lance,” Rolo hissed. “You’re in the way.”

“And stop gawking,” Nyma added.

“I was not!” he spluttered in response, shuffling down the aisle to the empty seats behind Allura.

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you kind of were.”

“Thanks, Hunk.”

“No problem.”

He almost felt bad for dragging him along because he knew that Hunk wasn’t really interested in Quidditch on the best of days. It was selfish of him; he just wanted someone there to make him feel a bit better about not being a player. As much as he could pretend he was just analysing the moves, he was really wishing he could be up there too.

“Hello, Nyma!” Allura chirruped once they’d taken their seats and she’d realised they were sat behind her. She nodded to Rolo and Lance, and his brain practically short-circuited. “I see you’re all supporting Slytherin.”

It took a while for Lance to figure out what she was talking about. He had temporarily charmed his scarf to change colour to a deep emerald green and had somehow convinced Hunk to do the same so they’d be a matching pair.

“Well, aye,” he said, grinning too wide. “They’ve got the best chance of winning.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Allura replied, and he realised too late that she was donned almost entirely in red as if the paint on her cheeks hadn’t been obvious enough. “Gryffindor has a new Seeker.”

“I’ve heard about him,” Nyma murmured, fiddling with the green bobbles in her blonde pigtails. “But he’s only a second-year, like us. He can’t be that good.”

“If Gryffindor has to choose a Seeker from second-years, they must be really desperate,” Lance blagged, loudly enough so that Rolo slapped his shoulder. His hair was stark platinum under his now-green knit cap.

“Watch it, mate. Nyma and I aren’t just fillers.”

“Right, right, sorry.”

“He’s actually got a point, you know,” the Professor beside Allura warbled. His accent was unlike anything Lance had ever heard before, booming and musical at the same time. Coupled with his hysterical ginger moustache, he couldn't help but stifle a snicker at how utterly ridiculous this guy was. “Ravenclaw players are notorious for dropping out once they reach fifth-year so they can focus on their studies.”

Allura sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. But I would like to assure you that you’re definitely _not_ fillers. It’s been a while since we’ve had a pair of Beaters as good as you two.”

Rolo bristled under the praise, crossing his arms and casting Lance a smug side-eye. “Thanks, princess.”

Lance scowled darkly and turned away to Hunk, who was staring intently at Moustache Man with a look of contemplation on his face.

“I’ve seen you in the Hufflepuff common room before…” he said. “Excuse me, Professor, but who are you?”

“This is my godfather, Professor Coran Smythe,” Allura explained warmly. “He teaches Ancient Runes.”

“And you wouldn’t have seen me around the castle much because I live in Hogsmeade and spend my nights there,” Smythe corrected. “Sometimes I like to bowl around to the common room to visit the old House ghost, the Fat Friar, and have a squizz at the kitchens.”

Okay, Lance didn’t really understand what he just said but nodded along anyway because he figured it was the polite thing to do. “I didn’t know you had a godfather,” he said to Allura. “Aren’t you also from Hogsmeade?”

“Yes,” she replied hastily. There was something distant in her eyes. “I live with him.”

 _Oh._ Lance leaned back, hands clutching his trousers. He figured it best not to ask any more unnecessary questions. Most Hogwarts students were boarders but there were a few from the village down the road who chose to return home at the end of the day. The Enchanted Carriages were more than happy to transport them.

“Now, ladies and gentleman,” Coran announced, rising to his feet and drawing his wand. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a match to commentate.” He pressed the tip of his wand to his throat. “ **Sonorus**.”

Without so much as a pause for breath, before Lance could even blurt out “wow, you’re the commentator!?” he started welcoming to spectators and introducing the Quidditch teams. Though the Ravenclaw could just about understand what he was saying through all of the gibberish, he tuned most of it out in favour of watching the players stream out of the vomitorium. It appeared that the Slytherins had been using the changing room directly below the commentator’s stand because they emerged from beneath Lance’s feet. He watched them arc upwards in a V-formation with Malfoy at the head.

He’d pulled his silvery hair back into a tight pony-tail which whipped around his face like steam from a locomotive, in sublime contrast with his green jersey. Lance watched in awe as he split off from the rest of his team, followed closely by his corresponding Beater. They circled the pitch together, zooming so close to the stands that he could feel the pulse of the wind from their brooms when they shot past. He heard Allura mutter something under her breath and huff heavily.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Hunk choked, clutching wildly at his escaping scarf.

Lance just shrugged mutely, eyes rapidly honing in on the three Chaser girls. _Acxa Marmora, Ezor Glenn, Zethrid Hyder._ He’d assumed the first time he’d seen Hyder that she’d be a Beater what with her massive physique and strong forearms, but had quickly changed his mind when he’d seen how well she worked in tandem with Marmora and Glenn. Their unity was seamless, their cohesion absolute. Lance yearned for that kind of bond.

Glenn was the prettiest by far. She had this bright red hair, a multitude of freckles and a winning smile. She didn't look cruel like Hyder with her dark curls and fat, sneering lips, nor did she sound grave like Marmora, whose posh Highland accent cut coldly through the air like a dagger through butter. Instead she was cute, bubbly, Irish.

The Slytherin Seeker, Narti Khan, was one of the best Hogwarts had seen for a decade or more. She was quick, faultless, master of the Wronski Feint, and more than a suitable match for Allura. Both were graceful and delicate in the air, artful and cunning. Lance thought, as he watched Khan flit through the sky with her cowl pulled tight around her head, that the Gryffindor Seeker was going to die today.

He hooted, clapping alongside his friends and everyone else in the Slytherin stands to their left. The stands were absolutely heaving and he had to wonder how they were coping with all that weight. There were some parents in attendance too, seated up with the professors, and he noted a particularly large banner in alternating green and red lettering reading `‘KACXA’` which was being held up by a short-haired woman and a man with a single dreadlock of plaited white hair. _Weird._

“And now, led by Takashi Shirogane the Champion, Gryffindor!” Coran hollered dramatically.

Allura whooped loudly and started clapping as the stands to the right of the commentator’s exploded like a lion’s roar. Seven scarlet shapes swooped up into the sky from the vomitorium across the pitch, their red and golden jerseys rippling about their brooms like fire. Lance immediately recognised Shiro, huge and humble, and noted how he lingered by the Slytherin stands for a few seconds longer than everywhere else. His expression was hard to see from such a distance, but it looked like he was grinning at something…wait, no, someone – a sandy-haired boy about his age. _Even weirder. That’s basically fraternising with the enemy._

Lance picked out a few others – _Stephen Gould, David Hamblin, Natalia Holkham…_ – and a small Asian boy hovering at the centre of the pitch, high above the Slytherins, arms crossed and face creased with impatience.

“Who is _that?_ ” he breathed.

Coran's narration answered for him. “Introducing newbie second-year Keith Kogane playing as Seeker for the Gryffindor team! Let’s hope he’s not all mouth and no trousers, eh?”

Kogane cringed under the raucous applause at his inauguration, shoulders hunch and gloved hands shooting down to clutch at the hilt of his broom. Lance hoped his unease was from the crowd and not the height otherwise Gryffindor were really in trouble.

He saw a flash of red in his periphery and, at once, Shiro was beside Kogane with a back pat and a reassuring smile.

“Are they…brothers?” Hunk asked. “They look very similar.”

“That’s racist,” Lance sniggered. “Not all Asians look the same.”

“I didn’t say they looked the same! Just similar!”

Madam Hooch was on the field in a few seconds, Quaffle in hand. She stood on the sandy ground expectantly with her arm outstretched and whistle planted in her mouth. Though Lance couldn’t hear her, he imagined she was listing off the rules of the game and had asked the Captains to shake hands because Malfoy and Shiro advanced slowly towards each other, both untrusting, and gripped each other’s palms fiercely for a few ticks before separating again and taking up their positions in the starting scrum.

And then the Snitch was liberated, the Bludgers were unleashed, and the Quaffle was airborne. The game had begun.

Holkham took immediate possession of the Quaffle because _damn_ , those Chasers were _quick_ , but had a tough time getting all the way to the Goal Posts. Though the three Gryffindors adopted the Hawkshead Attacking Formation, flying in a tight triangle to force the others players out of their way, Hyder and Marmora suddenly flanked them and squeezed them together into a line so compact that it was impossible for them to move anywhere but where they were being directed.

A well-timed Bludger from Malfoy left Holkham reeling, the Quaffle spiralling from her fingers and straight into Glenn’s waiting hands. Lance practically screeched when she punched it towards the hoop only for it to be stopped by Shiro.

“Who are you even cheering for?” Nyma griped. “She missed!”

“Aye, but that save was bloody brilliant!”

Lance could tell it was going to be an exhilarating match because less than ten minutes in and all eleven of the most common fouls had been committed. He was fairly sure he’d also seen Glenn trying to jinx Gould’s broom but kept it quiet – all was fair in love and war, and this was an all-out campaign. Even Khan was somehow in the thick of it, dodging Bludger after Bludger as she zoomed around the pitch on her quest for a glimpse of the elusive Snitch.

Kogane, in comparison, was mostly being left alone, probably because he wasn’t worth Slytherin’s time. Lance’s eyes were inexplicably drawn to him. It was irritating because he’d fully intended on watching the Chasers – they were inherently the most interesting players – yet Kogane kept getting into his line of sight, a little crimson fleck amongst the green and grey.

Though the tally chart was rapidly changing with every new score, Lance found himself missing more and more goals in exchange for watching the young Seeker peruse the pitch. Contrary to what he’d expected at the beginning of the match, Kogane actually looked casual on a broom, dare he say, comfortable. He was a natural, a whirlwind on a stick, and for some reason, the red of his robes reminded Lance of a Cuban hurricane.

In the distance, he heard thunder screaming across the sky, slapping the clouds into a heated turmoil that flew towards the south. There was a chill in the air, blue and lush, but Lance’s mind was on fire. He imagined himself panting in the heat, the burning sky clapped tight overhead like the lid of an oven, and thought of the hot Carribean sand blowing into his eyes and into those of torpid bullocks as they leaned into the yoke. A single stream crept along the valley floor, shrunken and muddy, and women stood ankle-deep in its shallows, beating their laundry against rocks that rippled and danced in the sun. Dust-devils swept over baked clay and through dry weeds, whistling and shrieking.

“And that whistle means it’s a penalty!” Coran cried.

Lance snapped his head around, eyes wrenching away from Kogane. “What?”

“Penalty,” Allura repeated.

“No, I know – what happened? I missed it.”

“Seriously?” Hunk breathed, jaw slack with shock. “How could you miss it? Zethrid Hyder just broke one of the Goal Posts in half. She was trying to hex Shiro.”

Sure enough, the post had been blasted in two and it hung limply from a few smouldering splinters. Lance frowned. He wished he’d seen that! _What the quiznack_.

“Are you alright?” Rolo asked. “You were zoning out pretty hard.”

Lance stared at him, brows creasing. “Aye, I’m fine.”

“You missed the last three goals and didn’t cheer at all when Malfoy clobbered Hamblin over the head. You usually love that sort of thing.”

“Oh. I was…taking mental notes?”

“Of the Gryffindor Seeker,” Nyma snorted.

“I was not!” He felt himself flush bright red for literally no reason whatsoever because the only thing that was embarrassing here was that he’d missed one of the most exciting moments of the match so far and everyone was laughing about it except him.

“You’re thinking of trying out for Seeker?” Allura asked, pivoting slightly in her seat. Her mouth was upturned slightly and when Lance met her gaze, he felt a deliciously cold shiver course through his body.

“No, I – _no_.”

“Good,” she continued brightly. “You’re not fast enough for that and, even if your long arms could come in handy, _I’m_ the Seeker.”

“Aye, exactly,” Lance said affirmatively, nodding. “You’re the Seeker.”

He refocused his gaze on the match just in time to witness a Gryffindor Chaser score, and grinned. Being a Chaser was definitely where it was at. All the fun and all the glory. Too bad the Slytherin Keeper was a mess and barely had any semblance of what blocking was. Shiro would never have let such an easy shot in.

Once the game was back in session, Lance’s eyes drifted over to Malfoy. He was a good shot but his partner barely compared. They attempted the Dopplebeater Defence together, striking the same Bludger at the same time to double the force behind their swing, but even Lance could see that Malfoy’s hit was far superior. The Bludger rocketed through the air but its target quickly turned before it could smash into their face, and soared up into the sky towards Kogane, who was obliviously surveying the field.

Lance’s breath hitched.

And Marmora was there in a second. He wasn’t sure how she managed it, but she aligned her foot so perfectly that she was able to kick the Bludger away like it was nothing more than a stray football and not a magical leather orb of pure power and death, and return to the fray. Lance wondered weakly whether she’d broken any of her toes and gulped.

“Why did she do that?” he muttered.

“Pardon?” Hunk asked vacantly, eyes fixed on where Hyder was wrestling the Quaffle out of Holkham’s grasp.

“Nothing.”

Kogane was still blissfully unaware, and Lance couldn’t help but grimace because _what an idiot_. The way he flew was so random. There was no pattern, no forethought, no calculation. Just blind flying, as though he were hoping the Snitch would miraculously show up. There had been a few sightings already unless Khan was just faking it to distract him. He hadn’t attempted anything though – no dives, nothing! Did he even know what he was doing? Did he even know how to play?

It was annoying. _Kogane_ was annoying. He was too present, too distracting, always in the way, yet Lance was _still_ watching him even though there were more exciting things to witness, like Glenn impaling someone's robes with her broom and dragging them across the field with her.

Khan was circling around the pitch’s perimeter for the umpteenth time. When she flew past his stand, Lance noticed the tension in her face, like she was getting desperate, and guessed that no, she hadn’t seen the Snitch after all. Kogane, close by and searching, paid no attention to her. The thunder growled from behind the clouds. Lance couldn’t wait for them to burst.

He loved rainstorms, always. The wetness, the wildness, the cooling effect of water. The Quidditch match itself felt like a monsoon before the rain, bubbling and frothing and too hot to touch. All the players hovered unwilling above the sandbar, screaming and yelling and kicking and fighting, holding to the net. On the horizon was the familiar castle and the round towers to which they were used, grey, pink, and blue, growing darker and filling with thunder. Lightning flickered in the sun along their thick walls. And the sun shone with such a violence that, in an illumination like a long-prolonged glare of lightning, the heavens looked black and white.

All colour left the world, the goldenness was like a memory, and only heat, a kind of glamour and oppression, lay on their heads.

Lance frowned.

It wasn’t sunny. The sun had been hidden behind the clouds since before the match had started – the goldenness that filled his gaze now was much less natural and it was moving.

_The Snitch._

He almost screamed. It buzzed right in front of his nose, hovering just in his line of sight, alive and taunting. No-one else had noticed it. All of them were far too intent on the match and the rapidly increasing scoreboard to see that the object of the game was _right in front of his face_ , and he could barely breathe.

Keith Kogane’s neck practically snapped around, honing in on the commentator’s stand, and he dived.

Lance’s entire world slowed down. He saw the whiteness of the lightning rip through the sky. The thick heavy trees, leafless but not lifeless, were brushed with mile-long streaks of silver, and a wind touched every player and spectator on the forehead. At the same time, there was a long roll of thunder that began behind the stands on the far side of the pitch, came up and down the mountains and valleys of air, passed over the players’ heads and left them swaying.

Before he could even blink, Kogane was there and Lance wasn’t even sure how given the speed he'd been going at, but he had stopped, mere inches from his face, and was hanging upside down on his broom in a flawless Sloth Grip Roll, one arm outstretched as his fingers closed around the Snitch. It buzzed weakly by Lance’s ear, having failed horrendously at trying to make a quick exit, and he was left with no barrier between himself and this dark-eyed, red flame, bohemian hurricane boy.

His red-and-gold robes and black hair hung limply from his body, and he had pale, pale skin and a hard face and hard eyes and a thin, smirking mouth and Lance wasn’t sure where to look because everywhere he chose seemed wrong.

A growing heat, like a million blazing suns, all focused on him, lit his insides. It felt like he was being cooked alive, spinning around and around so his flesh would burn evenly. He was having trouble comprehending the sudden change in his revolving world as he swelled with a horrible, billowing fire.

Lance wasn’t sure how long Kogane stayed there, staring at him like that – it felt like forever – but whatever was happening stopped as soon as the whistle was blown and Coran’s voice boomed across the stadium, resonant and euphoric, because he just pulled away, flipping upright and diving back to the centre of the pitch as though nothing at all weird had just happened. He moved languidly, instinctually, in a way that made Lance’s stomach twist with envy.

“Keith Kogane has caught the Golden Snitch! One-hundred-and-fifty points to Gryffindor!”

He disappeared into a throng of waiting scarlets, all immersed in celebratory screeching, and Lance could barely register the “go, go, Gryffindor!” chants because seriously, _what the_ quiznack _just happened_.

“Woah,” Rolo exhaled quietly beside him. “That was awesome.”

“How did he do that!?” Hunk exclaimed. “He came out of nowhere!”

“Did you tip him off or something, Lance?” Nyma asked. “He was all up in your business.”

He was burning. “Wha– no, I just – I barely even noticed the Snitch was there – it was _right in my face_ and then suddenly – what!? How did he even know it was there!?”

“Um. Lance, you should calm down,” Hunk murmured worriedly. “You’ve gone bright red. Are you okay?”

“Aye!” he squeaked. “I’m fine!”

“I told you he was good,” Allura bragged as she rose to her feet, stretching her arms behind her head. “Even if he is a second-year.”

Amidst the roars and the cheering, Lance could only stare down at the sandbank, feeling all hot and restless. Words could not describe his relief at the first fat raindrop that struck the ground, sending up a tiny plume of dust. Others followed, a barrage of dusty explosions bursting all around the field. The clouds reached down to touch the earth, and then a curtain of water fell and shattered across the castle and its grounds with a terrifying roar, drenching and extinguishing him instantly.

Lance’s open mouth filled with water, gritty at first, then pure and clean, and he shivered as wet cloth stuck to his body. Heavy drops beat on his shoulders and back and he rocked slowly, his thoughts silenced by the violence of the November storm, gasping in the sudden, unexpected cold.

“We should really get out of the rain,” Hunk said, “Or we’ll get sick.”

But Lance wasn’t really listening. He was still looking at the winning team as they danced in the rain, loud and shiny and victorious, Keith Kogane hoisted high on Shiro’s shoulders. He was smiling and it was a weirdly foreign look on his face and, even though Lance had never met him before, he thought of the magnificence of desert blooms that spring to life after a monsoon and how their impermanence made them special and unique.

Storm-dark eyes flashed up to the stands and, in a mist of rainfall, Lance decided he wanted to be a Seeker.


End file.
